Celebration Time!

Simply the fact that it is the end of September calls for a celebration around here (see previous post), but even more so, it is time to bring out the chocolate layer cake, balloons and sparklers for two other reasons:

1)  it is my birthday
2)  this is my 70th post and the one year anniversary of Letters to the World. 

Let's start with my birthday.  I am turning forty-one this week.  While last year I celebrated my fortieth with a big party and plenty of fanfare, the celebrations are much more low-key this year.  I have instructed my family not to make a fuss; I purchased a beautiful digital camera (a Canon Rebel) and a new bicycle this year and those seem like presents enough.  In pondering my entry into my forty-second year of life, I have visualized a skating rink as representing my fourth decade.  At thirty-nine I entered the arena and rented my skates.  At forty I sat on the bench tying up my skate laces and wondering how the ice would feel.  At forty-one I see myself as starting to glide around the perimiter of the rink, gradually getting more comfortable and adjusting my balance.  Perhaps by forty-two I will be attempting some jumps and figure eights.  Who knows? Please don't ask me why I see my forties as a skating rink - I have no idea.  It was just an image that came to me.

Now on to the First Anniversary of my blog.  While my good friend Tracey at http://unodostracey.blogspot.com/ is going for two hundred posts by her first blogiversary, and I wish her much success, I am truly blown away by the fact that I have actually written seventy in one year.  The reason I am so pleased with myself is because in a good year, before I started my blog, I may write ten pieces and feel pretty good about that.  But seventy?  Utterly amazing, as far as I'm concerned.  Oh, I know my posts haven't all been masterpieces, by any stretch of the imagination, but overall, I am extremely pleased with the fact that I have stuck to my goal of producing at least one piece every week.  And I have had an increasingly good time doing it!

Once, when I was a teenager, my neighbour Vicky, a bookstore/cafe owner asked me what I would like to do when I grew up.  I said, "I would like to write a newspaper column, one that would be, like, my take on things.  It would be a bit serious sometimes, and, like, maybe funny sometimes, too."  Vicky thought that sounded great.  I had encouragement in writing from one of my high school English teachers and especially from my parents, but the idea of a newspaper column had by then been buried under new ambitions for a scholarly career.  When I went to college, my English 101 teacher, Pauline Butling stopped me in the common room one day and suggested I take the Applied Writing course because I showed some talent in that area.  I told her no, I had other ('bigger') plans, and off I went to pursue them.  Those bigger plans materialized in my going off to the University of British Columbia, meeting my future husband, getting married, and starting a family directly.  So much for the scholarly career, but I plugged away at the writing, producing a novel, several journals, and the odd poem or short essay. 

When I joined the local arts council in 2003, I volunteered to write a monthly column in the local newspaper about our programs and events.  I interviewed artists and wrote feature articles to promote their shows and workshops at our art gallery.  I enjoyed the work and it helped me greatly in learning to edit and to get my point across quickly and with style.  The monthly column was well received, but after a few years, it was time to move on when I became immersed in other things.  The itch to write, however, never left me.  From that, there was no 'moving on'.  A friend suggested I start something called a weblog, which was a way of self-publishing my writing.  My dad had started one the year before (he's the Kootenay Ranger on my blogroll), and I had found the whole concept of a blog fascinating, but for me?  I wasn't sure.  Last fall, after attending my parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary family reunion, I became overwhelmingly inspired to create a blog of my own with the idea that it would be a weekly column of sorts.  It would be my take on things, sometimes serious and sometimes a little humourous, and I would call it Letters to the World.

So here I am, now beginning the second year of my blog and on my seventieth post.  I almost cannot believe how much more settled into the craft of writing I am, compared to a year ago.  What the experts say is true:  to be a writer, one must simply write.  Once a post is finished to my satisfaction, I am already thinking about the next one.  If this blog accomplishes nothing except for the increase in my confidence and belief in myself as a writer, then, in my view, it has been a success. I really do not know what this next year of blogging will bring - hopefully, at least seventy more posts written with immense enjoyment and hopefully received with some of the same.

A huge thank you to all my wonderful, loyal readers.  Without you and your feedback, this blog would not be nearly as much fun! 

Sincerely,

Rebecca S.

Just Do It!

It's September - the crazy month.  With the kids back in school it would seem that my life would be less busy, not more so.  Deadlines are looming and new programs are starting up, the schedule is packed and the calendar full. Early in the month I was fairly stressed and not in 'the groove' at all.  I felt like I was surrounded by strings and was just pulling them one at a time in no particular order.  It all seemed a bit chaotic at first, but if I have learned anything in my nearly forty-one years it is this:  the best way to deal with an overwhelmingly full plate is to just get going, to just chip away at the pile bit by bit, and eventually everything gets done that needs doing.  It's just a fact that sitting immobilized by the weight of my responsiblities and self-motivated work is no help at all.  Long ago, however, in my early days as an adult, I was yet to learn this important lesson.

I have always been a procrastinator, and I think this comes partly from a tendency toward comfort and pleasure, and the the need to feel undue pressure in order to focus properly on the put-off task.  When I was fifteen, my sister's boyfriend came to visit with a posse of college friends.  They were amazed at my ablility to lie on the couch reading for eight hours straight on a Sunday, yet somehow still get my homework done on time for Monday's classes.  Years later in University, my roommate was actually quite miffed at my ability to achieve good marks when, for the most part, I seemed to spend most of my time enjoying myself.  I am far from proud of my unfortunate habit, for it led to many years of struggle when real life kicked in.

My mother started saying 'Just Do It' long before the tough love phrase was ever applied to the Nike brand.  When I had my first child, I was immobilized for hours every day because I wanted to delay the inevitable fussing for as long as possible.  I would sit comfortably reading and nursing or playing with my baby for hours on end - at least then he (and I) would be happy and calm.  When my son was a month or two old, my mom came to visit us in our small apartment.  She quickly pointed out to me that it was possible to hold the baby in one arm and stir the spaghetti sauce with the other.  "Babies need to cry," she said, as she put him in his bouncy chair and helped me get on with things. 

My second baby was a sweet, tiny thing, another boy, born when his brother was only sixteen months old.  He was a good sleeper, and by then I had acquired that wondrously helpful item, a wind-up baby swing.  With two children, and a husband at work all day, I had no choice but to try and become organized.  Still, I had to gear up psychologically in order to achieve simple household tasks such as cleaning the bathroom and vacuuming the carpets.  I am not completely sure what held me back - my go-getter husband certainly could never understand my hesitation.

I truly think I saw household tasks as being achievable only after a lengthy, arduous climb over a very high mental wall, and once this wall was climbed over, and the chore done, I would congratulate myself far more than I deserved.  A soothing sense of satisfaction would come over me every time I stepped into the gleaming bathroom, or the just-dusted living room.  But it was not to last.  Housework, like child rearing, is like beading a string with no knot on the end. Within days the dust would accumulate and the tub ring would reappear.  I would toy with the idea of a quick wipe, but no.  Keeping up with it just didn't come naturally.  Retreating to a living room strewn with toys and baby board books, I would sit by with my book and wait for the mental wall to build itself back up and inspiration to hit me once more.

Those days are all but over.  I still allow myself to let the pile accumulate somewhat, but that is mainly due to the fact that I try very hard to maintain a balance between work (and I work hard) and leisure - the one is much more successful with the allowance of the other.  My husband is learning this, too as he gets older, because as my wise mother also has said, "The work will still be there when you return from your lovely walk in the fall sunshine.  It's not going anywhere."  Or something to that effect. 

I am so looking forward to beautiful, spacious October!

The tea towel in the photo above was designed by Suzi Warren and is available on her 'twisted twee' website.

The Importance of Communication

Several years ago, a woman I know (let's call her Judith) called me and said a mutual acquaintance of ours (let's call her Carrie) was in the hospital.   Apparently, Judith's husband had heard from Carrie's husband  that Carrie had suffered a nervous breakdown and had to be rushed to the hospital the previous night.  "A nervous breakdown? My God!  I wonder what brought that on?"  I said.  Judith then asked me if I wanted to accompany her on a visit to the hospital.  I agreed, wondering aloud how long Carrie would have to stay there before she could return home to her family.  Her breakdown must have been very bad indeed, poor thing.

We went off to the hospital the following evening, bracing ourselves for a potentially difficult and uncomfortable time.  Just before we left, I grabbed a book off my shelf by an author I knew Carrie, an avid reader, liked.  It was Touch Not the Cat, by Mary Stewart,  a good, light-hearted novel of intrigue, mystery and romance.  Just the thing for someone in her state of mind, I hoped. 

When we arrived at the hospital we found Carrie sitting up in bed and, by all appearances, happy to see us.  I gave her the book, which she received with a surprisingly normal amount of gratitude, and put aside her ladies' magazine immediately.  "I've already finished the book I brought."  She looked at us expectantly, waiting for the conversation to begin.  I admit to stalling a bit at first.  I'm not sure what I expected - a wasted, drugged, tearful individual?.  That is not what I found.  Carrie seemed the same as always - not overly excited about anything, but not overly upset either, quiet, and rather shy.  Hmmm.

So I did what I always to do in interesting social situations.  I just start talking.  Judith seemed a bit unsure of how to proceed, so it was up to me to begin.  Our conversation went something like this: 

Me:  So how long have you been in the hospital?

Carrie:  Two nights so far.

Judith:  Are you getting any sleep?

Carrie:  Oh yes, though of course, I'd rather be at home doing things rather than lying in bed.

Me:  Yes, that would be hard.  How long do you think you'll be here?  (all of this said, in a gentle, tentative manner)

Carrie:  Well, the doctor says about five days.

Judith:  Five days.  How is the food?

Carrie:  Oh, not too bad. 

Me:  I see that you are hooked up to an i.v.  What are they giving you, exactly?  Does it make you feel ill?

Carrie:  Well, it's antibiotics, so it changes the taste of everything, so I don't like that much.

Antibiotics?  For a nervous breakdown? O.K...   

Me:  So were you in a lot of pain the night you went to the hospital?  (There are many kinds of pain, after all)

Carrie:  Yes, the pain was really bad, so bad I couldn't sleep.

Me:  So you were in a lot of pain then.  Where did it hurt? 

Carrie:  Right here.  (she pointed to her lower abdomen) 

Well, that was a new kind of symptom for a nervous breakdown...and then something began to dawn on me - and treading oh, so carefully....

Me:  So what did they find when you got to the hospital?

Carrie:  That I had a raging cervical infection.

Judith:  Oh!  That's terrible. We weren't exactly sure what the trouble was. But are you starting to feel better?

Carrie:  Yes, but the doctor wants to keep me in the hospital to make sure I get the proper rest to fight the infection.

Waves of relief and a strong desire to laugh washed over me, but I knew I could not let on what I knew:  that Judith's husband had got it wrong. 

Me:  Of course.  Good idea.  You need your rest.  It's hard to rest with three kids at home. 

Judith:  Oh yes, sometimes it's best to stay in the hospital for a while and let other people handle everything at home.  Have you had this type of problem before?

Carrie:  Once before, but never this badly.  I hope this will be the last time, or I might have to get surgery.

The conversation carried on while Judith and I visibly relaxed into our chairs, and before long, it was time to go - visiting hours at the hospital were over.  We said our goodbyes and our get well wishes, and then Judith and I left the room, the ward, and finally the hospital.  We didn't feel safe to laugh and exclaim on the hilarity of our situation until we were safely in the car. 

How could such a blunder have happened?   I didn't ask the question aloud.  I'm sure Judith would have words with her husband when she got home, and I didn't think she would welcome my speculations somehow.  In my imagination I thought that the blunder may have occurred something like this: 

Husband of Judith runs into husband of Carrie on the street:

Husband of Judith:  How are things going?

Husband of Carrie: Well, actually, I had to rush Carrie into the hospital in the middle of the night.

Husband of Judith:  Oh no!  Why?

Husband of Carrie:  Well, it was bad.  I was quite worried.  She couldn't sleep on account of her - er - some trouble she's been having on and off for some time now.  It scared me but the doctor says she'll be alright after some medication and a few days in the hospital, in the quiet.  You know, without the kids bugging her all the time.

Husband of Judith:  Enough said.  I understand perfectly.  These things are difficult to talk about.

Husband of Carrie:  You've got that right. 

Husband of Judith:  Let us know if there is anything we can do.

Husband of Carrie:  Maybe Judith could visit her in the hospital.  She'd probably appreciate that.

Husband of Judith:  Right.  See you.

Judith's husband to Judith:  I just saw Carrie's husband.  It seems that Carrie's had some kind of episode, like a nervous breakdown, from what he said.  He said she's in the hospital and would appreciate a visit.

And there you have it.

Back to School Blues or the Halleluia Chorus?

I know it's time for 'back to school' when my eldest daughter starts pacing the kitchen with heavy steps.  She can only take so much easy living before she senses an innate need to get back to work.  Even though she said she was ambivalent about returning to school, especially the social side of things, she admitted she was officially bored and needed more to do with her days, not to mention her mind.  She said she was even looking forward to doing homework. 

My younger daughter generally greets the annual onset of a new school year with worried groans and a furrowed brow, but this year she seems to be adapting to the idea much more easily.  Grade four seems quite an attractive idea so far, for now she is one of the 'big kids' in the 'intermediate end' of the school.  She hasn't yet asked me what I'm going to do all day without her.

My eldest is graduating from high school this year and so he is feeling 'top of the world' and can begin counting down the days.  Graduation is a big deal here. We parents must soon attend 'grad' meetings and volunteer for grad fundraisers.  There are scholarships to apply for, college applications to wade through, etc.  I'm glad I don't have a girl graduating this year, though.  The boys can rent a tuxedo for the elaborate ceremonies, but the girls often buy expensive ball gowns a la Barbie they'll never wear again.  My thirteen year old daughter is already joking about making a gown out of coloured duct tape like the girl we read about in the newspaper.  I'm all for that.

My younger son is in his second to last year of high school, and seems ready to face the year now that the light at the end of the tunnel that is public education is growing ever brighter.  He's happy to get back to violin lessons and orchestra practise, too.  He was even heard to say, "I don't know why, but I just feel like this is going to be a good year." 

As for me, after a whirlwind summer of working, travelling, visiting, camping, and general chaos, I find myself euphoric to have my first quiet day at home - alone.  I see stretched before me six blissful hours of listening to nothing but quiet music or the ticking of the kitchen clock while I go about my work.  I love my children, and it is great to be surrounded by them during the holidays, by their laughter and their jokes, their ideals and their energy, but there comes a time when I begin to long for an hour or two of the stillness and solitude that September brings.  By spring I will long for their presence again as I begin to feel something akin to lonesomeness by then, but for now.....ahhhhhhhh! 

Last year, at a writing workshop, I wrote a little piece about a girl named Zoe and the route she and her friends take to school every day.  Incidentally, it is much the same route my friends and I walked to our high school in Nelson back in the mid 1980's.  Imagine that!

                                                                     Zoe's Way

Zoe walks to the high school every day with friends - sometimes one and sometimes a broken line of five or more stretched across Panorama road.  Mrs. Debiasio once told her she loved to watch them pass by her house just to see what they were wearing.  In the months of September and June when the mountain mornings are chilly the girls wear coats and sweaters and then carry them home slung on their backs like donkey's burdens in the hot dusty afternoons.

The girls climb up the black-railed steps through the wood where Zoe can still smell the ghost of the garbage bag full of moldering, dank-smelling Playboy magazines they found years ago, up past the hospital with its candy-striped blondes who, in summer, sell them Jelly Tots and melt-in-your-mouth chocolate Rosebuds.  They dip down into a straight stretch with a view - a view so much a part of them they acknowledge it with a mere glance but breathe it in all the same - of a long, narrow west arm of a lake straddled by an orange bridge and surrounded by rising, blue mountains shaped like sleeping elephants.  The girls meet more girls and now some boys.  Sometimes they link arms and chant, "Lions, tigers, and bears, oh my!" with synchronized step-hop-steps.

In winter, Zoe doesn't care enough about looking cool to risk catching her death on the mile-long walk with glacial lake-born winds biting and clawing at her face.  With a toque, scarf up to her eyes, snow pants, ski jacket, boots, she is comfortable.  But when she gets to her locker she stuffs all the outer wear in.  Out of her backpack come snakeskin shoes and the royal blue beret she bought in Vancouver with her babysitting money.  She is already wearing the menswear black blazer - the sleeves and collar turned up - that plays host to the button collection with its names of punk bands, clever remarks, and favourite causes: one of them a green stop sign with 'Stop Clearcuts' in the middle. 

When they arrive at the school, a rectangular compound set in a hollow in the hillside, the girls go their separate ways to their lockers.  Things are different here in these hallways, narrower somehow.  Zoe braces herself for the daily dose of the good, the bad, and the ugly that is high school, but somewhere deep down inside she knows:  not everyone gets to walk to school.

The photo is of my hometown of Nelson in the fall, my favourite time of year growing up, when the hillsides are painted with vibrant reds, golds and oranges.

How Much Do I Love Camping?

I believe I am now completely thawed after camping for five days on the southwest coast of Vancouver Island with a complete campfire ban in effect.  We are experienced coastal campers but nothing could have prepared me for camping in damp windy conditions without the benefit of a fire in the evenings.  I wore all the wool I brought and went for many walks on the beaches dressed like it was January.

My husband and children didn't seem to feel the cold nearly as much as I did.  They dressed warmly, but were not desperate about it.  One day found me walking around our campsite with a wool blanket tied around my waist like a sarong.  My husband took to calling me 'Nanuk', but by the end of the week, even he said next time we camp at French Beach we should come earlier in the summer, when the possibility of a campfire ban has not yet taken effect.   The forest floor of the campground was littered in gold and brown leaves from the overnight fall-like temperatures, but we were mercifully cozy in our tents and sleeping bags at night, and slept well, looking forward to hot chocolate and coffee made on the Coleman stove in the morning.  We had glorious days on the beaches, hunting for tidal life, scanning the horizon for dolphins (we saw a group of three) and whales (we were blessed with a visit by a grey whale feeding in the kelp beds just off shore at Botanical Beach near Port Renfrew), and warming up on the sunbaked stones littering French Beach and China Beach.  At one point I sat on French Beach, picking up warm stone after warm stone to hold in my frigid hands.

We played round after round of badminton and tossed the football, and no one complained about taking their turn to do the dishes after every meal in a pan of hot water.  We were gratefully distracted from the wind on our second afternoon with a visit from my brother, his family and a couple of nephews, and enjoyed showing them around China Beach - a long stretch of fine sandy beach accessible only by a short hike through a forest of huge arrow-straight Sitka Spruce trees once used for masts on tallships  - which they thought was truly beautiful.  We had brought a gas lamp with us and after we found it emitted a generous amount of heat we joked about it being our impromptu campfire, placed it on the fire grate and gathered around it every evening just to stay warm while we sat and talked about the day and shared stories and favourite scenes from well-loved comedy programs.

The last day we hiked into Mystic Beach and enjoyed the sheltered bay there.  We lingered in the warmth, exploring the caves created in the cliffs by the tide, and visited the waterfalls.  I was clicking away with my camera when a fellow hiker offered to take a family photo, and I think it will make a great Christmas card this year.  Soon after, our daughter Emma stood on a rock near the shore.  The tide was coming in then and my boys thoroughly enjoyed watching their sister get soaked by a large rogue wave that hit her at chest height.  Good thing I had packed an extra jacket.

The last evening after supper was cleared away we walked on French Beach and remarked on the darkness of the clouds heading toward us.  We decided to string up a tarp over the picnic table in case of rain, so at least we would have somewhere dry to cook and eat in the morning.  We were so glad we thought of it, because it rained fairly hard all night long.  We packed up the wet tents cheerfully, anticipating the dry warmth we would return to here at home. 

Do I love camping?  Not necessarily in the aforesaid conditions.  But what I do appreciate about camping is the unobstructed family time, the simplicity of choosing meals suitable for cooking over a two burner camp stove,  the 24/7 outdoor living by the briny fresh sea, the inaccessibility of technological gadgets, my husband being well out of cell phone range so he can't be bothered with work, and the appreciation it gives me for the simple things of everyday life - like a hot bath and a solid roof.

The painting above of the large piece of driftwood on French Beach is called 'West Coast Wanderer' by Victoria, B.C. artist Jeffrey J. Boron.  More of his work can be found here.  

Monica and the Flower Thief

I was reading the front page of one of our local rags, when I was reminded of a time a few years ago when my eldest sister Monica impressed me once again.

The newspaper article was illustrated with a photo of a pregnant woman smiling in front of a few of the potted plants she has placed around her community of Yarrow's downtown.  "After two summers, the mother of two (soon to be three) estimates she has spent almost $2000 on plants, soil, pots, rocks and other materials to get some much-needed greenery into the town's three block downtown core," stated the article.  "(Her) efforts began as her own pet project, but community members have jumped on board, watering and caring for the plants placed in pots outside their businesses."  A week ago, four containers disappeared, and on the weekend, sixteen more were stolen. 

I'm not surprised.  Apparently some green thumbs are accompanied by a set of light fingers.  Yes, I know  gardening is big business and that plants and their containers can be quite expensive, especially if one wants to achieve that instant full garden look, but stealing other people's plants already carefully and lovingly potted, or plants from public spaces meant to be enjoyed by the community overall?  Very low indeed. 

A couple of years ago in April, my sister, Monica came down to stay with me and we attended an arts council conference in a nearby city.  The conference was held at a brand new fine arts high school with lush landscaping.  The weather was lovely so we ate our lunch outside in the courtyard and my sister and I took every chance to get off our chair-worn bottoms and go for walks around the grounds.  After the final day's last session, Monica and I were preparing to leave when we noticed a woman with a black SUV, with the back open, digging up very newly planted bedding plants and placing them in boxes in the back of her vehicle.  Now, I am a bit slow on the uptake and don't generally assume people are doing something they aren't supposed to be doing.  Something about the woman's hurried manner, however, made me pause and say a decided, "hmmmm".  Monica, experienced newspaper reporter and savvy sleuth merely exclaimed, "I think she's stealing those plants!"

After consulting a nearby couple who agreed that, yes, the woman certainly appeared to be helping herself to the plants, my sister began to approach the woman, while calling out "Are you stealing those plants?"  The woman said nothing, but closed her tailgate and drove off in a hurry.  I think it safe to say from her response, that yes, she was in fact a flower thief.

So what kind of person steals bedding plants or potted plants?  What kind of mindset thinks it okay to take beauty and colour from a public place and transplant it for their own enjoyment only?  Did the woman in the SUV think that because a microscopic portion of her tax dollars went to funding the high school's bedding plants, that they were somehow hers to take?  I mean, I know a few people who will take a small snip off a shrub in the park and then propogate it at home to plant in their gardens, but they would draw the line at helping themselves to the entire rosebush, roots and all.  I suppose it is the same mindset as the person who steals the bathrobe or towels from the hotel, or the person who helps herself to office supplies and toilet paper from the supply closet at work, and takes them home.  When many of us were children caught with an unpaid for pack of gum from the corner store, we were marched back to shopkeeper, made to apologize, and pay for the stolen goods (in more ways than one), but we are meant to learn from that experience and grow up to respect the property of others.  That must be it, then.  Perhaps the woman in the SUV stealing bedding plants, and the people who stole the 20 potted plants from downtown Yarrow never were marched down to the corner store to face the music, or maybe they have forgotten what it's like to be caught, accused, tried, and punished for their crimes.  Hopefully, my sister's bravery awakened the woman in the SUV just a little to the fact that, even if she is okay with taking what is not rightfully hers, that others certainly are not.

The photo above is from an article from www.vosizneias.com entitled, "Flower Thieves Terrorize NYC Neighborhood."  The article suggests weighing down potted plants to make them heavier to lift and anchoring baby trees and shrubs to make them harder to steal.  As one of the commenters on this website said in response to these suggestions, "Oy!  What is the world coming to?"

Happy Birthday Galen Paul!

Youth Symphony Concertmaster Galen

Sixteen years ago today, I was lying in a recovery room in the Kootenay Lake District Hospital with my second son swaddled close to me in a receiving blanket, waiting for his dad to arrive.  At that time we were living in Cranbrook, but had been staying at Blue Lake children's camp way up a mountain road for the last few months with my husband, who was the camp's director.  As my due date grew nearer, I found myself concerned about being so far from the Cranbrook hospital, but neither did I want to be alone with my eldest son, Ian, only fifteen months old himself, when I went into labour. 

As it happened, my eldest sister Monica invited Ian and I for a two week stay with her in Nelson at the beginning of August.  I readily accepted, and although my baby was not due until the 24th of August, I secretly hoped to have him in Nelson in the hospital where I was born and surrounded by family.  I got my wish, and went into labour early in the morning of the 10th. I called my husband on his radio phone after breakfast to give him the news.

"You're in labour?  Really?  Are you sure?"  he asked.

"Yes, of course I'm sure.  I wouldn't call if it weren't happening."

"Okay.  I've got to get things organized before I can leave camp for a few days.  When do you think the baby will be born?,"

"How would I know a thing like that?" I laughed.

"Okay, okay.  I'll come as soon as I can.  Sh**."

"Don't worry, Monica is here for me.  Just get here when you can."

 My sister, a mother of four by that time, took me to the hospital emergency room and coached me through an extremely quick delivery.  My tiny blonde baby boy was six pounds, two ounces, with fine features.  "Keep him close to you," said the nurse, the mother of someone I went to high school with.  "He's a little cold."   

My husband arrived sometime in the afternoon and held his son.  "What should we name him?"

We took a while to decide.  Everyone at my sister's house wanted us to name the baby Jeremy.  My husband and I decided on two names to choose between:  Caleb Matthew or Galen Paul.  We chose Galen Paul. Perhaps we should have chosen Caleb Matthew - we failed to realize the name Galen might be shortened to 'Gay' years later by his persistent classmates, which it was. 

Galen remained tiny in stature, but plump in cheek, and I could carry him through the cold winter in a front carrier under one of my husband's coats.  By this time we had moved, with the help of my sister Clare to Kimberly, a little ski town that we had found ourselves escaping to at every opportunity when living in Cranbrook.  My husband had use of a company vehicle and the commute was an easy twenty minutes to work.  For a year and a half, the four of us lived in a small, but sweet rented house, in a beautiful little town with quaint shops and delicious cafes. The boys and I frequented the German bakery where we bought honey whole wheat donuts and deliously chewy fresh pretzels, and we (I) worked off the calories by walking down the long hill to the park and then back again, pushing a double stroller or pulling a sled, depending on the weather.  My husband could drive to the ski hill in five minutes and cross country ski by lamplight in the evenings.  He bought me a pair of skis, too and I found a pair of boots at the second hand store.  I was looking forward to the next winter when I could begin.  My husband was promoted at work, and we started looking at properties to buy.  We could almost afford one there.

Then he was transferred.  To Vancouver Island. 

The boys and I began to pack up the house and say our goodbyes to Kimberly.  We said goodbye to the Rocky mountains in the distance and to the hills closer to home.  We said goodbye to the shops and cafes, to the bakery and the park down the hill.  We also said goodbye to our many new friends. We didn't want to leave, but we had to follow the work where it was to take us.  And we were an adventurous young family at the time, restless for new experiences.

Galen loved the Island.  He loved the ocean, and on one of our first excursions on an absurdly warm day in January, he walked right into the water in his rain suit and rubber boots.  He loved watching the workings of the lumber mill across the Puntledge River where we walked almost daily, and scanning the water for seals, but the non profit organization my husband worked for lost their funding and closed the Island office.  We moved again to a lodge northwest of where we had been living, and stayed for five years.  It was the perfect setting for my growing boys, who by then had a little sister. Galen loved climbing:  trees - the higher the better, walls, the fish netting strung around the volleyball court that kept the ball from landing in the lake, and mountains.  When Galen was about seven years old he heard his friend Neil play the violin, and he decided he wanted to play the violin, too.  He began to take lessons with the gifted fourteen year old son of a local teacher, while he waited for a spot on her long list of students.

Then his dad got a new job on the mainland and we had to move again.  "When can I take violin lessons again? " asked Galen after several months in our new home. Galen is now on his fourth violin teacher and is down at the church, as I write this, practising a Hadyn song with a cellist and a pianist to play at a wedding this weekend.  He has not found all the transitions in his life easy - he is much like his mother in that way.  Looking at him now, tall, handsome and quite distinguished in his glasses, with a ready sense of humour and an equally ready disdain for foolishness, he is, for all intents and purposes a philosopher.  Life has given him cause to complain, but it has also given him so many gifts and talents on which to focus.  And I am very proud of him.